To Thine Own Self
by SSJ-Alhazred
Summary: In a world where wrestling isn't staged, how much of the Undertaker is fiction? As John Cena and a newbie fresh from OVW will find out...not much at all.
1. At the Gate

I'm not strictly adhering to canon of any period, because I don't want to end up with dated character dynamics when they inevitably change on actual programming, and because a lot of things (brand extension, etc) are needlessly complicated for the story I want to tell and the characters I want to focus on. I mean, is it me, or is there a serious dearth wrestling fics out there that features any actual wrestling?

Fair warning, this story will contain slash down the road, probably later rather than sooner.

* * *

**To Thine Own Self...  
**_Alhazred - madarab20AThotmailDOTcom – alhazredDOTlivejournalDOTcom  
_Non-original characters, storylines and concepts © WWE, this is a not-for-profit project.

_I. At the Gate  
May 13th, 7:17pm_

The anxiety was thick enough to cut with a knife, and all manner of other metaphors that were obscure and less easily recalled. It started with getting on the plane and traveling on his own. It wasn't so much the 'on his own' part that bothered Kerwood, it was the logistics involved. Back in Ohio, it was easy and comforting to have the same ring to look forward to every day.

Now, though...actually scheduled for a televised event (even if his match was dark,) it was a different story. He couldn't really blame the company for its no-frills policy when it came to carting its athletes around...they saved a fortune on plane fare (by not paying it) and hotel expenses (by paying very little.)

Being no-name dark match filler, Kerwood wasn't even afforded a complimentary room at a two-star twenty minutes away from the arena by cab. The incessant planning necessary to make the traveling work right scared him to death. In his mind's eye, he could see so many little things he could botch and probably end up being fired over. Buying the wrong ticket, balancing his checkbook wrong and being unable to _afford_ a ticket...he thought he would feel better once the cab he'd hailed brought him to the arena, and he felt anything _but_.

Paying the driver and getting out, throwing his gear bag over his shoulder, he realized he needed to find the back entrance to the place. This, like so many other things, turned out to be much less difficult than he figured it would be. It felt bizarre and awkward seeing the fans gathering at the front doors, about to go inside; a gaggle of people who were not from Ohio that couldn't care less about him.

And he knew they couldn't care less, but that didn't stop Kerwood from feeling like everyone's eyes were on him, even as he gave the crowd a wide berth. He practically crossed the street as he made his way around the building, thinking his bag was like a glowing neon sign that said "I am worth paying attention to in lieu of anyone more interesting."

It would've been infinitely easier if there _had_ been someone more interesting walking by; being invisible was one of the better states of being when doing something for the first time. Kerwood remembered feeling this exact same way for his first few days after getting to OVW, and he really hoped he could handle the transition to something completely different one more time. Hell, he'd settle for just getting through it without crawling into a corner and crying from homesickness.

Funny thing; it wasn't even a big transition this time. He was going from one wrestling promotion to another, not from his boring every-day life and into a wrestling promotion for the first time. He tried not to think about the inherent paradox his need to feel invisible caused with the fact that he was going to 'work' in a place where an arena full of people would be watching him, even if most of them wouldn't be paying attention.

Much like everything he worried about, Kerwood discovered that it wasn't so hard to find the back entrance. The WWE production trucks were nicely lined out near it, the stage crew still mulling about, pulling cables to and fro. There was a pair of guys wheeling a camera into the arena.

The atmosphere was a little strange, too. It wasn't totally dark out, and the weather was nice. There were even birds fluttering overhead, making the little cement pit that was the arena's perimeter into a nicely Spring-like area.

The contrast of where Kerwood stood versus what he could see of the Baltimore cityscape was pretty intense. Maybe it was the fact that he'd grown up in a small town, but he could _see_ the grime of the city even at the end of his vision, where the harbor began way down the street. And there was plenty of it behind him from the route his cab had taken from the airport, too. The dull gray of the sky didn't help, he couldn't imagine it was ever blue above a place like this.

It must be something one could get used to, he thought. People did _live_ in the cities, after all.

Pushing his pop-philosophy thoughts aside, Kerwood forced his feet to move again. He turned sharply and headed into the building, through the wide-open loading dock.

He made it three feet inside before his lack of attention to his surroundings led to surprise. "Hey. Kid."

Practically spinning on his heels, Kerwood came face to face with a fairly large man who looked like he would feel more at him as bouncer at a nightclub in a bad part of town. He was wearing a WWE T-shirt, though. "Yeah?"

Looking at Kerwood like he was stupid, the guy added, "Got a reason for being here?"

Blinking a couple of times, Kerwood wondered why the bag over his shoulder didn't make it obvious. Maybe this was why the bigger stars came to events already in costume sometimes. Or at least, they always said they did in Ohio. The same way 'they' said getting driven back-first onto a pile of thumbtacks was more of a preparation for the rigors of the industry than it was a hazing ritual. "Uh...yeah. I'm on the card. You know, wrestling."

The wanna-be security guard warmed up a little after hearing this, but not totally. "Cool. Got ID?"

"Uh," Kerwood let his bag drop to the ground, pulling his wallet from his back pocket and fishing out his driver's license. All the while, he assured himself he could probably take the guy down if need be; he had a height advantage, and was probably good at his job. But still. Thinking he had no right to get in the ring tonight if he couldn't even out-fight door security, Kerwood handed over the card.

His accoster took it in one hand, bringing the clipboard his other hand held up high enough to read, flipping through the pages as best he could with his thumb. Eventually, his eyes went from the little plastic card to one of those sheets of paper and back a few times, until he gave it back. "Looks alright. Go right ahead, Mister Walkerton."

"Thanks."

Not bothering to re-organize his wallet, Kerwood threw his license in with the cash, satisfied with the simple fact that it wouldn't bend, and shoved it back into his pocket even as he yanked his bag off the ground and started walking again.

The first time he rounded a corner was the first time of the night that Kerwood would feel like he'd had a heart attack; he bumped into someone large walking around in the opposite direction. Whoever it was had even more height over his seemingly unimpressive six-foot-three than the doorman did, and probably at least an extra hundred pounds.

It was so sudden that he didn't even realize it had happened until the man had slipped by him as though he wasn't even there, a quick spot of black swishing out of his vision. "Ah, sorry!"

Turning abruptly, Kerwood caught sight of the back of a heavy leather trench coat and a funny-looking Stetson hat, a growled "Mmmm" coming from the owner as he simply rushed along. Body language suggested apathy rather than superiority as the motivation for such a simple response, and Kerwood was glad for that.

He was a twig, and he _knew_ he was a twig. He was pretty confident that he could handle someone at his own skill level if they had the weight advantage; that was why God invented crazy aerial maneuvers. He wasn't at all delusional about how little effort an experienced heavyweight would need to break him in half, though.

He really hoped his opponent would be another cruiserweight. Maybe even one of the hacks who'd somehow managed to fail _up_ through OVW instead of having to do that usual "put in effort" thing. At least one of the guys he'd floored in farm country had to have made it into the big-time at some point.

Really, the only reason Kerwood hoped for this was to snag himself an easy victory for his first actual WWE match, and he wondered if it made him a bad person. He decided it didn't matter, though. He wasn't stepping on kittens, after all. Surely life being a _little_ unfair in his favor wouldn't get him more than a few years in Purgatory.

Not that he believed in such things.

The day took a turn for the weird when he found a dead end at the end of the corridor, having never taken any of the doors out of it. The 1st Mariner wasn't the largest arena in the world, Kerwood wasn't expecting to find himself lost. Now, here he was.

The little corner of the building wasn't empty, though. Kerwood almost missed the other man, leaning against the wall as if he was happy to have found solitude. He didn't recognize him, and the fact that he had an open make-up kit seemed more than a little strange.

At first glance, he wondered if it might've been Ric Flair, but it wasn't even close. The strange man looked up from his mirror, letting the eyeliner in his hand drop a few inches. "Well now, and here I thought I'd have some privacy."

The tone in his voice gave Kerwood the creeps. "Uh, well. I was just looking for the locker rooms."

"Oh, right, yeah," the man chuckled, going back to his makeup job. "Been around these places so much I forget not _everyone_ has." He blinked into his mirror, eyes never going to Kerwood, but he waved his eyeliner off to the side. "Go back and turn right. Should find the dressing rooms where no one'll bother you."

"Thanks," Kerwood blinked. He walked away as quickly as he could without breaking into a run when the man winked at him.


	2. Trench Warfare

**To Thine Own Self...  
**_Alhazred - madarab20AThotmailDOTcom - alhazredDOTlivejournalDOTcom  
_Non-original characters, storylines and concepts © WWE, this is a not-for-profit project.

_II. Trench Warfare  
May 13th, 7:45pm_

"Whaddaya want, Orton?"

"Mail call, Private."

If there was one thing John Cena couldn't stand, it was Randy Orton's Marine jokes. Every time he had to suffer one, he felt himself edge a little closer to stabbing the guy. Even so, he resisted the urge to burn Randy back with the words "court-martial" and, instead, wondered what the hell he was talking about. "Huh?"

"Mail." Ever the one to smile, Randy grinned ear to ear like Cena was an idiot as he handed him the small envelope with his name on it. "You know, correspondence. Got delivered to me by accident. Or whatever."

"Huh." Taking the little envelope, John did his best to ignore Randy from that point on. It was more interesting; there was no stamp or address on the envelope, only his name written in simple, straight letters across the front. That meant someone had tried to deliver it_personally._ Briefly, John thought it might be from Eric Bischoff, but it didn't feel like one of his usual official messages for who-knew-what. The paper almost felt cold, somehow.

Figuring he could either toss it away or open it, John shrugged off his odd chill and ran his thumb under the lip. Tearing at the top, wrecking the envelope thoroughly before he plucked out the single, folded piece of paper, he soon found that his guess was right. There was no letterhead on it, not even a single WWE logo in the corner.

In fact, the only thing there was a single little blurb right in the center, nicely hugging the crease through the middle.

_Beware the vulture..._

_...orthe hound will feast on you._

"Man, what?" All things considered, Cena didn't think it was very noteworthy; certainly not as noteworthy as it was weird. It didn't even rhyme, so if it was a deranged fan's attempt at being impressive, their free-styling really needed work.

Of course, he wasn't sure it even _was_ a deranged fan who'd somehow gotten by security, and he wasn't sure if that made it worse or better, either. Crumpling the little paper up and shoving it into his pocket, Cena made a mental note to figure it out later. He didn't get to where he was by ignoring details. Besides, being on the receiving end of creepy emo-sounding notes made him feel special, in a weird way.

Orton didn't need to know any of that, though. "Just some bull from Bischoff."

"I doubt anything that guy does could be described as anything else," Randy rolled his eyes, giving a chuckle at the expense of Bischoff and his business habits. He dropped his bag from his shoulder and crouched down next to it, tugging out his wrestling gear. "I think that guy's never been right in the head ever since he watched WCW go down."

Not that Eric's one-time exploits with the New World Order hadn't been the butt-end of many a joke since he and much of the talent he either commanded or intimidated over the years had fallen into their niches at World Wrestling Entertainment. The irony of a faction trying to take control of the actual business and running it into the ground as a result was not lost even on someone like Cena, who much preferred to look at the world literally rather than through symbolism. "I hear ya, bro. I liked it better when Regal did most of the booking, gotta admit."

"Speaking of," Randy grinned, leaning back against the counter that lined one wall. For most of the arena's events, it would support the stage performers as they prepared themselves in front of the mirror that went down the length of the dressing room. For a wrestling event and the wrestlers that followed, it was pretty pointless and little more than a high-chair. "Who's your match tonight?"

"Dave, man. Friggen' Batista." Rolling his eyes, Cena added, "I don't even know how long it's been since last time. I haven't even talked to him in forever."

"It's just a low-point for anger, this month," Orton gave a toothy grin, as if he was waiting for a second shoe to drop any day now, or even any second. "No one's pissing anyone else off right at the moment...but you know how it goes...sooner or later, someone's going to get bored. And they're going to attack a guy with a belt during their normal matches for an easy way to a title shot. And then the person they screwed out of that title by getting them disqualified is gonna get pissed."

"Yeah, it's like a messed up cycle," John nodded, his hand absent-absentmindedly gliding across his waist. He really missed the US title, and the physical weight being absent was just as bad as the emotional weight. "Wrestling just goes from calm to clusterfuck the same way…"

As soon as Cena trailed off, Orton picked up the slack. Snapping his fingers in revelation, he said, "Like a PTA meeting."

"Dude," Cena blinked. "You know what you sound like when you pull shit out of your ass like that, Bro? You sound like a..."

"What?" Orton prodded.

"'Dumb fuck' is about right," John nodded.

Giving John a good _pshaw,_ Randy turned to leave. "Bastard. I gotta get going. Big match with Umaga tonight."

"Umaga?" John said. "That seems a little...I dunno, _random._"

"Hey, Umaga gets bored too," Randy shrugged. To John, it looked like a cringe. "I just wish he'd get bored with someone who isn't me. So...yeah. Hey, you mind if I hide in your shower and change?"

"Hah, right," John rolled his eyes, thankful that Randy had some common courtesy. Once Orton was gone, he dug that slip of paper and read it again. "Freaky shit..."

* * *

The no-name dressing rooms were pretty sad, and a festival of awkwardness if Kerwood had ever seen one. The room he found his way into was filled with ten other guys in varying states of getting into costume. He guessed the ones who'd picked out their own cubbyholes to bury their noses in books or cell phones instead of changing were the ones who had low-publicity matches that were nevertheless scheduled for the televised event later on. They were in no rush.

Finding his own little hidey-hole, he had to duck down low as he moved to sit inside, avoiding the various wire coat hangers at the top. His mind wandered and he stared up at them, imagining what kind of outrageous costumes usually hung from them when performances that lasted more than one night took up residence in the place.

He wasted little time in yanking the zipper on his bag open, pulling his boots out and toeing his sneakers off. If anyone asked, he planned on telling them that he wore street clothes to the ring instead of actual tights because they were more comfortable. It was really an emotional comfort; he didn't know how so many guys ever found the guts to wear something skin-tight in front of so many people.

Of course, tights were going out of style these days anyway, but most no-namers didn't notice that and wore them to fit in. Being more concerned with standing out, making himself noticeable to fans and executives in suits alike, Kerwood tucked the cuffs of his jeans into his boots and tied them nice and snugly.

Much like being afraid of the gathering crowd outside while heading in to perform for them, he wondered at the logic of trying to stand out in a crowd when crowds scared him.

As much as he could wear any pair of pants that fit right, he only had two shirts to his name on the road; dark red button-downs with stylized black flames arcing up from the bottom. He figured it looked hellish enough. "Blood-red" was a good enough color to call them, and they were a size too big, just enough to make him look a little more filled out while still being easy to move in. He just hoped no one would realize he'd bought them at _Hot Topic._

The color; that was more for his gimmick, such as it was. He wondered what his grandmother was going to say if she ever saw him on TV, and he hoped it wouldn't be something like, "Kerwood, dear, why did you spend so much money on nice clothes just to get beat up in them?"

God willing he made it that far.

Rather embarrassingly, Kerwood realized all too late that he'd buttoned his shirt wrong, and he had to redo the whole thing. Fortunately, no one was really paying attention to him anyway. Once that was done, he dug to the bottom of his bag for the vest folded over itself enough to get it inside, and carefully tugged it out so as not to scatter his affects on the floor.

He had to stand up to put it on; the vest as it had originally been was simple enough, made out of denim, now dyed dark red that seemed like a cheap knockoff of his shirt's color. A pair of thick tails was sown to either side on the front and the back, made of worn black leather from an old trench coat. They started at the shoulders; the ones in front went down to his knees, the tails in back went nearly to his ankles.

He wasn't sure he didn't look like a complete dork in it, but he was proud of the effort that went into the thing, nonetheless. It looked like a professional job unless one stared at it very closely in order to see the leather as an add-on and not an original part of it.

Kerwood remembered watching his grandmother putting the finishing touches on it; embossed down the front-left tail in a shiny red thread were the letters to spell out "KERBEROS."

She'd probably forgotten she'd done it by now, but it hardly mattered. Kerwood didn't sit back down, he leaned against the wall next to the little cubby hole he'd been hiding in, figuring it was better to size up the competition on one's feet.

If his opponent for the night was here, he didn't know it. He still had the letter from Eric Bischoff in his bag, rather nonchalantly proclaiming him to be booked for Monday Night Raw's first dark match against someone named "Crossway."

Kerwood didn't see any obvious theme for that name among the wrestlers who were in costume. Then again, he imagined his own look didn't particularly intone his ring name, either.

No one was being particularly social in the dressing room. Three of the wrestlers had pulled chairs together in one corner to talk, but that was about it. The rest of it was an array of nervous glances and people leaning against walls trying to look badass. It made Kerwood feel better to see he wasn't alone in his mindset.

He wondered if he was the only one going out for his first WWE match_ever,_ though. It didn't really matter in terms of experience, but he didn't like the thought of going against someone who had been in front of an arena crowd already and would better deal with it.

Glancing at his watch, knowing the time anyway, Kerwood tugged it off his wrist and tossed it into his bag. He turned, but stopped and leaned down, pulling the zipper closed and nudging it as far into the corner as possible with his foot, once he was up straight again. Hoping everything would still be there where he was leaving it, he squirmed his way around everyone between the wall and the door, leaving the dressing room.

Finding his way to the arena proper proved to be easy; the place was made around it, after all. One single technician sat before the entrance to the ramp, giving it a wide berth. His chair was a simple steel folding jobbie, the likes of which Kerwood had become well acquainted with the first time he'd pissed someone off at OVW.

The guy didn't really acknowledge him, but he pulled the walkie-talkie off of his belt and spoke into it. "Other guy's here, go ahead with the introduction."

He spared Kerwood a nod towards the curtain, and Kerwood took that as confirmation that his opponent was waiting for him in the ring. Probably for a while, being the first match and all. It would certainly give the crowd something to look at besides their feet.

"Okay," Kerwood breathed, pausing just before the curtain. He told himself this would be more low-key than the loudest it had ever gotten in farm country, how of everyone who would be bothered to find their seats this early, very few of them would be paying attention.

It was a surprisingly comforting thought. With that, he stepped through the curtains.

Walking out at the top of the ramp and beginning the strut down to ringside never got old, and doing it in an actual arena felt much more liberating than he'd thought it would. He still felt like everyone's eyes were on him right off the bat, even though he could see people right at the guardrails who didn't pay him any notice. The sheer amount of space, though...the wide open arena made the crowd feel a little smaller.

The ring announcer was possibly the first person to care he was here. His opponent was sitting against one of the far turnbuckles, and he'd been their long enough that the announcer hadn't introduced him yet. Kerwood had to give him credit, he sounded just as pumped as he would for the main event later in the night. "The following contest is scheduled for one fall. In the ring, from Towson, Maryland, weighing in at two-hundred ten pounds..._Crossway!_"

The fact that anyone cared now was a testament to the announcer's ability to fire people up with mere words. There was some good information in there, too, as far as Kerwood was concerned. His opponent was local talent, meaning it wasn't someone he knew from OVW who had come up with a new ring name.

He was at the foot of the ramp by the time the announcer introduced him. "The opponent, hailing from Cheney, Washington, weighing in at one-hundred-sixty pounds..._Kerberos!_"

He wished he actually had entrance music. It was a little disheartening to be walking down the ramp and have the eyes of the ringside spectators on him. Their stares dared him to demonstrate why he was worth their time.

He saw there was something funny about his opponent before he made it to the ring, but he waited to take a good hard look until he'd climbed the steps. The other wrestler was lazily leaning on the far turnbuckle, giving Kerwood the same look that the ringside audience was giving both of them.

His face was painted white, with a black upside-down cross drawn in a narrow line down the middle of his face and across his cheeks. The horizontal line neatly went across his lips, and his otherwise plain black tights and t-shirt were accentuated by loose tabards hung over his arms from the shoulders. 

Kerwood hadn't really been prepared for attitude, and he tried to think of better mind games to play as he stepped between the ropes and into the ring. His hands shook as he shrugged his vest off and tossed it to the mat for the ring crew to snag.

Maybe it would be worth testing the Asshole Method. Insults had worked for Peter Parker in the ring, hadn't they? Kerwood wasn't the wittiest person in the world, but his fear was a good motivator to overcome that. "Dude...your gimmick sucks."

Surprisingly enough, it worked. Not very well, but Crossway let his arms fall from the top ropes, and he stood up straight, approaching the center of the ring. A look of bewilderment found its way through his makeup. "What?"

"The face paint," Kerwood waved a hand in front of his own face, "It sucks. What are you supposed to be, Sting as a born-again Satanist?"

That did it. Crossway being local talent, this had to be his first WWE match as well, and he was starting it by being insulted. Kerwood didn't have long to think about the psychology or philosophy of it, though. He was so surprised when Crossway broke into a run from just standing there that he ended up putting on very little defense for the tackle that came with it.

Knocked over, Kerwood heard the referee signal for the bell to officially start the match, but he managed to miss the actual sound, as Crossway had dropped to his knees next to him, grabbed him by the shirt and started throwing punches.

It wasn't anything he hadn't taken before, but it was a hell of a way to start the match, and Kerwood was relieved when the referee made his five-count and Crossway let up. He didn't dare dawdle and let himself get smacked on even more, so he was quick to get to his feet despite the ringing in his head.

Crossway didn't accost him on the way up because he'd run to the far ropes and bounced off. Seeing that he was quickly coming in for the return, Kerwood leaned over, not seeing any signs of Crossway stopping.

He ended up ducking nicely under Crossway's arm as it swung out, and gave his own clothesline when Crossway bounced off the ropes and came back. It worked wonderfully, and upon seeing Crossway fall onto his back with a satisfying thump, Kerwood felt the itch to take a risk.

It wasn't the best idea so early into a match, but the turnbuckle was close, and it only took him a second to slip between the ropes, then another second to climb up to the top from the other side. Those same two seconds saw Crossway getting up to his feet and turning just in time to see Kerwood leap from the turnbuckle and come down for a dropkick.

He dived out of the way. He didn't have the time to get far, though, and while Kerwood missed, he landed unceremoniously on top of Crossway's side. It broke his fall, and he doubted it hurt Crossway all that much considering his legs had been carrying his weight through the air, but he thought, _maybe,_ Crossway was disoriented.

Spurred on by cheering from the ringside crowd, the first time they'd made noise, Kerwood yanked Crossway onto his back and threw his weight across in a lateral press.

Crossway kicked out at one-and-a-half. He did it hard enough to knock Kerwood off of him, and they were on their feet at the same time.

Not wanting to be on the receiving end of anything else, Kerwood acted first, grabbing Crossway and trying to whip him into the ropes. Crossway reversed it on him and Kerwood forced his feet to move before he fell flat on his face, just barely turning so his backside hit the ropes.

Crossway had used the far ropes for momentum by now; Kerwood reached out and caught Crossway as he left the mat, perhaps trying for a floatover to get into a pin.

His arm wrapping around the middle of Crossway's head in a perfect front face lock, Kerwood kicked both feet up and let himself fall onto his back, taking Crossway with him. Their momentum from running canceled out, as far as Kerwood could see. Not that it mattered.

As soon as he felt Crossway's head impact the canvas, he rolled him over and went for the cover. Hoping his DDT was enough, Kerwood threw his weight down over Crossway's shoulders and waited, his eyes following the referee's hand as he slapped the canvas. One...two...

Crossway kicked out again, still with the strength to make an actual kick to get his shoulders up. Seeing white paint smeared across his arm, Kerwood yanked on Crossway's hair and pulled him up.

He wasn't planning on going far; if Kerwood had his way, he was going to land his finisher and walk away with a win right then and there. Once they were on their feet, he shoved Crossway's head between his knees, wrapped his arms around his waist, and yanked him up. Crossway, for his part, was surprised to find himself on the business end of a powerbomb, but Kerwood hadn't held a good grip while getting Crossway onto his shoulders.

Realizing this, Crossway grabbed at Kerwood's shoulders and pulled, pushing off of Kerwood's back with his legs to send himself off. Surprised, Kerwood could do nothing before Crossway shoved him hard.

Again bouncing off the ropes, Kerwood saw his perfect opportunity when Crossway leaned forward to go for a throw. Taking a leap off the canvas, Kerwood grabbed Crossway square around the chest as he flew inches overhead. He rolled, and the momentum was more than enough. Crossway fell backwards, the victim of a pin after a sunset flip.

Springing up and pushing on Crossway's legs to keep the rest of him down, Kerwood was jolted out of his victory when Crossway shoved his legs back up against him, sending him sprawling. His head bounced painfully off the canvas, and Kerwood forgot where he was for a second, his view of the spotlights up above turning into streaks.

He came back to reality when Crossway dropped on him, bringing an elbow down on Kerwood's sternum. He felt Crossway lay across him, knew what was going on as soon as Crossway hooked one of his legs. He didn't try to kick out, it felt like it would've been wasted effort with his legs being held.

Putting everything into getting a shoulder up instead, Kerwood threw up the arm Crossway wasn't putting most of his weight down on, and the referee stopped hitting the canvas, declaring a two-count.

Frustrated, Crossway hauled himself to his feet, hands around Kerwood's head as he pulled him up. Finding himself bent forward with his head tucked under an arm, Kerwood saw his chance. He didn't know what Crossway was planning, but he didn't care. Whatever it was, it wasn't going to be good, and the thought of that gave him strength he didn't realize he could muster right then.

Grabbing Crossway by the waistband of his tights, Kerwood heaved himself up and back, sending Crossway over his head and flat onto the canvas. He didn't stop there, though; he kept his feet firmly planted where they were, bridging the suplex into a pin.

It wasn't a strong cover, he didn't have the strength in his legs to put a lot of weight down leaning backwards like that, but it was enough. Crossway was so surprised at the reversal that he didn't even realize the referee was counting until the bell rang.

"Here is your winner..._Kerberos!_"

It was music to Kerwood's ears, the lack of a soundtrack marking his victory suddenly no longer important. He rolled right out of the ring, eager to put distance between himself and Crossway before his defeated opponent came to his senses and decided to get some payback for the loss.

Then again, how often did dark match wrestlers ever put in the effort to hold a grudge? Backing his way up the ramp, Kerwood watched Crossway sit up, holding his head where it had hit the canvas hard, glaring at him but not moving to give chase.

Turning, taking a quicker step, Kerwood spared the audience on either side a glance and raised his arms in victory. It suddenly didn't matter that few of them cared...the fact that any of them made noise at all was all he needed.

And, he realized, noticing again the smear of white across his arm, he needed a shower.

* * *

_May 13th, 10:10pm_

Having watched the monitor since Randy first made his entrance, John felt pretty safe in the conclusion he drew; Randy wasn't doing so well against Umaga.

It almost went well for him, almost. Armando Estrada eventually found a chance to crack Randy over the head with Umaga's Intercontinental Title belt. It was enough to make John cringe, even in the safety of his dressing room. He'd take a chair shot over a belt any day; it never looked it, but those things were more solid then chairs with moving parts.

It wasn't long before a weak knock landed on John's door, nicely placed in the middle of Raw's commercial break, no less. It didn't take a genius to figure out who it was, but even without anyone actively gunning for him, John's instincts were geared towards caution. "Randy?"

"Cena, man," Randy's voice was strained, and not only because it was coming through a solid barrier. "Open up."

Practically having to catch Randy after he did so, John opened the door without another word. Randy had no warning to stop leaning on it. Once he regained his balance after nearly knocking John over, Randy was perfectly capable of standing straight on his own.

The look on his face and the hand he held to the back of his head told a different story, though, and Randy wasn't afraid to mention it as he plopped down into one of the chairs strewn about. "Bastard Samoan. And his bastard manager. I can't believe I'm not bleeding, man. For real."

"Randy," John sighed, closing the door and sitting down close enough to his friend so he wouldn't have to yell. "Bro, maybe you should go see the medic."

Shaking his head, his gritting teeth suggesting that it hurt to move it that much, Randy answered, "No...no. I'll be fine. I swear. I've had worse. I'm just...rattled, is all."

"Yeah, you _look_ fine," John rolled his eyes, pretending the ceiling was interesting as he let his gaze stay there. Orton was a nice guy and a good friend, but he could be such a blockhead.

"I'm gonna get that," pausing as if looking for the perfect, unique word for Umaga, Randy said, "That...that bastard."

"Not tonight you're not," John chuckled. He had a feeling he might end up not far off from Randy at the end of the night. Batista wasn't Umaga, but the guy could certainly hit hard. Harder then he used to at OVW, anyway. "Hey, you ever talk to Dave anymore?"

"Not really," Randy shook his head. Finally letting his hand down, he slowly tilted his head straight, afraid of sudden movements aggravating the lump that was undoubtedly forming. "Now that you mention it, it's been awhile since I've even seen him aside from randomly in a hotel or walking around the arenas."

"Yeah," John said. "I just kind of lost touch with him, too."

The little television sitting on the table, really an extra monitor for an A/V setup that no one needed, buzzed loudly with Raw's theme music once the commercials were done, switching over to Jim Ross and Jerry Lawler recapping Orton's defeat.

Orton, for his part, was caught a little off-guard, but not by the subject matter. "Hey, I thought you were next."

"Nah, this early?" Laughing, John added, "Still another match before mine."

"Oh," Randy deadpanned. He remained silent for a good half of the first introduction, his eyes tracking the small image of Jeff Hardy making his way to the ring. "Maybe I _am_ concussed...who's Jeff up against?"

John didn't have time to answer. By the time Randy had asked, Jeff was already in the ring. By the time John remembered, the lights in the arena had gone black, and a heavy gong rang out. "Oh, c'mon, you remember when Jeff did that interview a couple weeks back and said he wasn't afraid of dying after all the ladder matches he's been in. I bet Bischoff tells the dead guy to act like he's on-call for when someone says that."

"Oh, shit." Randy just stared at the TV, standing fast enough to feel dizzy. He didn't care much, he turned his chair around and sat back down, hugging his arms tight across the backrest and tucking his head in behind it, as if hiding. For a few seconds, he stayed like that, eventually popping his head back up to see over the chair, and no higher. "Shit. Can you turn it off? Please?"

John had never seen Randy quite like this, with a tone of voice that made him sound utterly terrified. He was caught totally off-guard. "What? Why?"

"Because," Randy started, trying to look away. His head turned back before the Undertaker was even three steps down the ramp. "Because...'cause every time I see him somewhere I feel like...like he's _watching_ me through the cameras. Or through the magazine covers, those are worse."

John, again, thought about the word "blockhead" describing Randy. He couldn't shake off the fact that Randy seemed genuinely scared out of his mind just watching the ring action from the safety of the backstage area. "Well, maybe you shouldn't have tried to burn the guy alive, Bro."

He wasn't about to say that his big reason for leaving it on was so he could see the end, thus knowing when he should head out. His thoughts of this were drowned out anyway, as he watched Randy, marveling at how he was sitting there quaking in his boots, obviously afraid, and yet, completely unable to simply close his eyes and stop watching. "_Maybe_ he should've actually _burned._ I mean, what the hell, when you set someone on fire, he's supposed to get all charred and dead, not vanish and then come back and beat the fuck out of you."

That was the end of the argument for John; he knew Orton could be as stubborn as a mule, and he didn't want to get into the subject of whether the world had spiraled down enough to leave him in the free and clear if that casket had actually contained a burnt skeleton after it was put out. He didn't want to remind Randy that the police officers who very nearly arrested him for attempted murder to begin with weren't hallucinations wrought on by his undead 'victim.' Given Randy's current state of mind, John wondered if he might've had better luck pushing the idea that the biggest mistake in his legend-killing plan had simply been going after the Undertaker, as opposed to, perhaps, the Great Khali. "Randy...just stop talking."

Not one to be unsympathetic to his friends, however, John compromised. He reached over and turned the volume knob to zero. It clicked into place, and not for the first time, he wondered how old the little TV set was. It had the old WWF logo on its top, not the attitude scratch, but the _really_ old one that some of his wristbands were styled after. Then again, who was ever going to complain when the A/V crew could just not go through the trouble of wiring the locker rooms for the benefit of the wrestlers?

Without hearing Jim Ross' blow-by-blow or the actual impacts, John could only imagine how hard the wrestlers were hitting each other. This soon turned into imagining how hard the Undertaker was hitting Jeff Hardy. It wasn't the worst mismatch ever, but in a standard match, without the luxury of a nice ladder to bring down on the Undertaker's head, Jeff's speed and agility didn't outweigh the Undertaker's stamina.

This point was driven home when Jeff put all of his weight into a lariat at the ropes, managing to shove the Undertaker over them and to the mats. The Undertaker was still on his feet, and John watched the screen intently as Jeff vaulted over the top rope and landed a kick straight into the Undertaker's head on the way down.

Randy hadn't blinked once, not even when the Undertaker fell back and bounced off the guard rail at the ribs, falling to his back. From there, the Undertaker simply sat up and turned his glare to Jeff, inspiring Randy to speak. "Christ, he's gonna kill him."

Feeling like he should've slapped Orton across the face to snap him out of his daze, John shot him a look. "Randy, get a grip. He's not gonna tear the kid apart, he doesn't even care, it's just what he got booked for." Turning back to the match, John noticed something that Ross and Lawler had to be going nuts over; Jeff's brother Matt had come to ringside to help his brother. "Besides, looks like the odds just got better for the little guy."

"Or they'll just piss him off for real," Randy said.

As much as John hated to admit Randy might've had a point, he had to agree because of what happened next. Matt Hardy didn't waste time with the usual interference nonsense. He didn't try to distract the referee, he _ignored_ the referee, picked up the closest unoccupied steel chair, and folded it.

He wasn't fast enough to save his brother from more pain, as the Undertaker lifted Jeff by the neck and tossed him backwards, into the guard rail.

With the Undertaker's attention on Jeff, though, Matt had no problem walking up behind him and cracking it over the back of the head.

At this point, Cena turned the volume back up. He was just in time to hear the bell ring as the referee flailed, the announcer saying, predictably, "The winner of this match as a result of a disqualification...the _Undertaker!_"

John was actually a little surprised. This kind of desperation wasn't a trademark of the Hardys, and it _was_ desperation, not aggression. After one more thwack with the chair, this one across the Undertaker's back to knock him to the ground, Matt dropped the weapon. Grabbing his brother's arm, he led him away, and they made haste up the ramp and out of the arena.

"Yeah, they're dead," Randy concluded.

"Maybe," John nodded. Now, though, he had more important things to worry about, like his match. Sitting down, he rummaged through his bag, finding his knee pads. Slipping them on past his sneakers, he added, "Time for me to go kick ass, Bro."

"Yeah, good luck," Randy waved his hand once, never looking away from the screen. "Say 'hi' to Dave for me."

John wondered if he even realized he was in someone else's dressing room. He was pretty sure Randy would be fine and dandy, though. After pulling his cap on and checking the fit on his kneepads one last time, John headed out.


	3. Demons

_**To Thine Own Self...  
**Alhazred - madarab20AThotmailDOTcom – alhazredDOTlivejournalDOTcom  
Non-original characters, storylines and concepts © WWE, this is a not-for-profit project._

_III. Demons  
May 13th, 7:45pm_

There were few things that got under John Cena's skin. Being whipped into the turnbuckle and then speared by Dave Batista's rather sizable shoulder wasn't one of them. He'd been wrestling long enough to not lose his temper over the match not going his way the entire time.

_"John Cena getting the spear...Batista hasn't let up once during this entire matchup, King."_

**"Batista's been doing that a lot lately, JR. Fill in the animal-related joke on it, but he's really taken to just mauling the other guy like there's no tomorrow."  
**

No, it was Batista himself that was putting Cena off of his game. To John, Batista had never really been the Animal. He didn't pull punches if they ended up in the ring against each other, but there was never a question since the day they'd met in OVW that Batista was a friend.

All of that was gone tonight. Batista was rabid, and every time he rammed his knee through Cena's gut, Cena could feel the rage as much as the blows. He just didn't get where it was coming from, being pretty sure that he hadn't done anything to piss Batista off lately. Hell, they hadn't even _talked_ lately.

Finally, John had enough. When Batista stalked at the referee to yell at him over the five-count for the corner antics, John broke into a run on the spot and introduced Batista to his shoulder.

He didn't let up, not willing to give Batista any more time to mount his berserker offensive. Bouncing off the ropes, John fully intended to clothesline Batista's head off, but found his opponent wasn't where he wished.

Instead of taking it, Batista leaned over at the last second, perfectly timing his counter to when John had already committed. Out of nowhere, John found himself flying clear over Batista's back as he was hefted up and tossed with his own momentum.

The ring ropes were the icing on the cake, too; Batista had been close to the edge, and when John came down, it was nicely across the top rope. If the rope biting into his skin much more than when he simply bounced off of them wasn't bad enough, the fact that he couldn't stop the rebound and landed back-first on the ring certainly did.

A fall like that gave no room for recovery; John had no way of shifting his weight to alter how he landed, and instead of landing on one of his lats and just getting a bruise to show off, he landed spine-first. His head bouncing off the ring, John found that while his mind really wanted to stand up, his body wasn't going to oblige right away.

**"Did you see that, J-R? Cena's like a Mexican jumping bean!"**

_"Maybe more like a Marine jumping bean in this case, but the difference doesn't really matter to Batista, that's for sure...  
_

John wasn't stupid; he knew very well what was about to happen as soon as he realized his head was locked firmly between Batista's knees. He tried to stand, maybe throw Batista over his back like he'd just been thrown himself, but it was hopeless. The conk on the back of his head robbed him of his strength completely, long enough for Batista to yank John up onto his shoulders and then all the way down to the ring, back-first.

_"Wham, Batista Bomb!"_

**"Cena just had his back rearranged!"  
**

Much like being unable to muster a counter, John was completely unable to make his arms and legs move enough to raise a shoulder against Batista's weight down on him. The referee slapping the mat for one, two and three was loud; the bell ringing was even louder.

Now, the ring announcer, he was just deafening. "Here is your winner..._Batista!_"

In the midst of trying to make his arms and legs do what he wanted, Cena tried to figure what went wrong. It was hard to think with his lower back a giant cramp and Batista's music thundering through the 1st Mariner, but the loss really bothered him more than it should have.

He realized he'd let himself go since losing the US title, not so much physically as mentally. John could feel the dregs; he'd grown, if not less competent, then too apathetic. Maybe it was what he and Randy were talking about earlier, about the ring lacking any real drama over the last several weeks.

Whatever it was, John just felt drained. Besides that, he also really wanted to know what had Batista frothing at the mouth. Much to his surprise, though, when John finally managed to sit up, he found an empty ring. Batista had simply left to storm up the ramp and leave, without a single word. Feeling like he'd been stepped on metaphorically much more than physically, John fully intended to get up and go after him, ask him what had gotten into him, maybe.

As soon as John was on his feet, the arena started spinning worse than when he'd simply sat up. Batista was long gone by the time he stumbled out of the ring, his knees weak.

The decision to go up the ramp instead of next to it was a conscious one for John. He felt like a chump, losing because he'd been caught off-guard like that, and it made the idea of walking that close to the fans who were booing him for it a little nauseating. Par for the course, it made the idea of walking that close to the fans who were still cheering him _despite _it even worse.

It was, John knew, a cruel parallel to Randy's night, when he knocked on the door to his own locker room. He figured Randy would've locked it, but there wasn't any answer. Motivated by curiosity, he gathered the strength to give it a good smack with his fist. "Randy! Open up, man. This ain't funny..."

Trying the door, John found that it opened, and he felt more than a little foolish. His first thought was that Randy had left and gone off to his hotel - or a bar, for that matter - but this idea proved wrong. Randy was still in the room, but he was huddled into the far corner. He leaned out when the door opened. "Cena? That you?"

"Randy," John stared at him, unblinking, "What are you doing?"

"Dead guy was banging on the door," Randy said. He was much calmer than he'd been earlier, and John found that a little odd, considering what Randy was saying. "Like, wham, wham, wham," Randy went on, pantomiming it with his fist. "Knew I was in here, too. Kept yelling something like, 'Orton, Orton, did you write this, you little bastard?'"

John fought the reflex to roll his eyes. "So why didn't he bust the door down and...whatever?"

"Don't know," Randy shrugged. "I just hid over here and he left. Maybe he didn't know I was in here after all."

Deciding not to go down the path of asking Randy why the Undertaker would bang on the door to _this_ locker room while shouting for him, John changed the subject. Randy, for all of the sudden calmness he'd been scared into, looked like hell. He was still wearing his wrestling gear, the bruises he'd gotten from Umaga had long since started to color, and the grime he'd collected rolling around the ring and mats like a rag doll was more obvious. He probably didn't smell like roses from up close. "Randy, dude...you need a shower and a night's sleep."

"Yeah," Randy nodded. Pausing, he glanced to the side. "You, uh...mind if I use yours? I don't want to find out if he's waiting in my locker room."

"Yeah, go for it," John said, before he even thought about how much he needed a shower himself. It didn't bother him much, in the end. He would have plenty of time once Randy was done.

The usual courtesy Randy showed John, among a few others, seemed much more like timid modesty right now. He set his change of clothes right outside the single-sized shower, and didn't take off what he was wearing until he was safely behind the curtain.

Something Randy said was bothering him a lot more than thoughts of having to possibly watch the guy strip, though. "Asked if he 'wrote it,' huh?"

Digging into his pocket, John retrieved the little couplet he'd forgotten about during his match. Re-reading the words, he couldn't help but wonder if he was the only one getting weird rhymes on small pieces of paper.


	4. Sweating Bullets

**To Thine Own Self...**_  
Alhazred - madarab20AThotmailDOTcom - alhazredDOTlivejournalDOTcom  
_Non-original characters, storylines and concepts © WWE, this is a not-for-profit project.

_IV. Sweating Bullets  
May 14, 5:45am_

"I won."

Hearing his own voice was a hard sell. Kerwood had dreamed of this moment, thought of believing in God just to pray for it coming one day. Still, he was very conscious of the fact that it just wasn't what he'd thought it would be in his fantasies. The 'told you so' he'd wanted to say to his father for a long time just didn't exist for someone standing in the cheapest motel they could find.

On the outskirts of a large, busy city, places to stay were pretty cheap. They were pretty dirty, too. Kerwood's phone had set him back more than two weeks in a place like this would.

The response that came back over his phone sounded flat, and it wasn't because of the static or the distance.

_"I'm...glad for you."_

Eying the stationery unfolded on the bed, he decided not to mention his pay. It would be adequate, he'd even be able to afford food. Not three times a day, but it was more than the paycheck in OVW, and since he wasn't paid on a salary, winning the match added a bonus. "I just...I thought I should call."

_"Okay."_ It was a tone of voice Kerwood recognized. He pictured the exasperated look on Sergeant Walkerton's face. _"I guess that's good, then."_

Sighing a bit too loudly, Kerwood massaged his eyes and dragged his fingers to the bridge of his nose. He'd built up a lot of fatigue between stressing out over wrestling, the actual wrestling, and now, from this very conversation. It was catching up to him. "So, how are," he stopped, realizing what a stupid question this was, but he just couldn't think of anything else to say. "How are things?"

Once he heard himself say the words, Kerwood realized that silence would've been better after all.

His father seemed to agree. _"Full of sand."_ He didn't sound sarcastic, which probably meant he was even more bothered by it than Kerwood first suspected. _"And gunshots, sometimes. And it's hot. The usual."_

When Kerwood thought of asking his father when he would have leave again, he thought better of it and kept his mouth shut this time. He really didn't want to see the man, didn't want to visit his grandmother in the nursing home, didn't want to wonder if everything his father would say to him in person was part of a grand guilt trip over the fact that he'd saved most of the cash he'd earned at OVW instead of helping out with the bills. "Right. I'll...let you go, then."

He hung up before his father could say anything. It wouldn't surprise him if his father had just done the same, really.

After a long while staring at his phone, Kerwood stopped spacing out. He realized his back was starting to ache from the way he was leaning forward and rubbed at the offending muscle, leaning back slowly until he could flop onto the bed with little strain.

The mattress creaked, either from age, over-use, or both. It seemed clean, and he was thankful for it, considering the price of the room. Ankles crossed, one hand behind his his head, Kerwood reached for the piece of paper next to him and read it over for the tenth time since it'd been delivered to him at the 1st Mariner.

Outside, the sun was coming up. The light filtering in through the dirt-coated window gave the sheet of paper an orange tint, and the words were harder to read. Fortunately, he already knew what it said.

_--Mr. Walkerton,_

_Enclosed is the pay for your match. As you are the only dark-match competitor to both sustain some crowd reaction __**and**__win during the May 13th pre-show without the referee catching your opponent cheating, there is no question that we wish to continue booking you for matches in the coming weeks. The psychology of your wrestling was impressive, and we encourage you to put as much, if not more effort into your next match. Your record from OVW gives us high hopes for your coming competitions._

_Please be at the Charlotte Arena in Charlotte, North Carolina for the May 20th edition of Monday Night Raw. Be aware that, because of last-minute booking changes as well as the number of local wrestlers who may or may not walk in for try-outs, you may be scheduled to open the televised event against a wrestler of greater experience than yourself. The roster is currently low on wrestlers scouted from OVW or other local promotions such as yourself, so this is more of a likelihood than usual. If this happens, remember that we in the corporate offices do not judge based on sheer wins and losses as much as on your behavior as a whole._

_ Eric Bischoff / GM--_

The wording made Kerwood wonder if the general manager himself had written it, instead of just sticking his signature on a form letter. He supposed it didn't really matter; the whole part about how he might actually be on TV made his stomach feel funny. The thought that he could go _that_ far so soon wasn't a new one; it happened all the time to up-and-coming wrestlers much better and much worse than he was, but he didn't really see himself as _prepared_ for it.

It was a thrill as well as a fear, though. Getting on TV and then failing to impress _everyone watching_ was a thought that made his stomach do cartwheels, but right now, he didn't care. He was going to make the most of the chance he had.

Deciding to get more sleep before heading out, Kerwood shut his eyes and let his head fall back onto the bed's stiff pillow. There had been a time in his life when he'd imagined buying his first motorcycle sometime in the future and having his father there to see it, see that he'd had enough success to just pay for something expensive like it was nothing. Now, he didn't really care if his father was there or not. He just wanted that bike.

* * *

_May 14th, 9:30pm  
_John wasn't normally one to drown his sorrows in alcohol. He wasn't normally one to drink period, but on the occasions he went out for a night on the town, he preferred to do it as a celebration for something. The idea of finding a bar in downtown Baltimore with Randy to make themselves feel better a day after their meager attempts at matches on Raw just hadn't sounded like a good idea.

After spending twice as long working out in the closest gym as he usually did, John's resistance wavered. He'd pushed himself too hard and he was paying for it with much more fatigue than usual, especially considering the beating Batista had given him. He'd expected to feel _better, _so it was a heavy let-down.He knew he needed some form of stress relief, and sharing a few beers with Randy gave him a second chance to wind down after overdoing it in the gym.

Still, the calm little bar they'd found at the harbor didn't help his mood very much. Thinking of himself as an active person, John wasn't one to sit still as a way of relaxing. He preferred nightclubs to bars for the motion and energy. The fact that he didn't think he had enough strength left to _handle_ a nightclub just made him feel more miserable.

With enough of a buzz going to forget the ache in his arms and legs, John tried to stop thinking about his own sorry state. Picking up his latest bottle, he let it hang from his hand and watched it swing back and forth ever so slightly before taking a sip. Turning to Randy on the stool next to him, John said, "You feel like we just wasted the night?"

The bartender had taken them, but Randy would've had more empty bottles in front of him than John. He wasn't hammered beyond all recognition, but he was still considerably more drunk, and he slurred a little when he answered. "Wasted? Nah, man. We're just enjoying a night off."

John latched onto that idea. "You going to Smackdown this week?"

"Nope," Randy said, a shit-eating grin plastered onto his face for no real reason. "I'm not booked for a match, so I'm gonna visit home until Monday."

That was disconcerting news; John didn't have any heat with their coworkers, but he also simply didn't know many wrestlers very well. Randy declaring his intention to milk his lack of Smackdown booking for everything it was worth reminded him that he had nowhere worth going. The Cena family farm was too hectic, not a relaxing place to go for a weekend. "Guess I'll just go to Smackdown, can't sign too many autographs, right?"

"Man," Randy chuckled, waving a hand to get the bartender's attention, "I don't know how you actually enjoy all that fan stuff...always drives me stir-crazy sitting around like that."

While Randy got himself more booze, John let out a sigh and shook his head. He liked the Legend Killer, but he couldn't stand Randy's arrogance. He liked to think of himself as a good influence, since Randy always toned it down when they were around each other, mostly because John usually called him on his bullshit instead of smiling and nodding.

Apparently, being buzzed made Randy forget this. Opening his mouth to say something Randy probably wouldn't remember in the morning, John never got a word out. He stared past Randy to the far corner in back of the room, where his eyes had just happened to settle, and wondered how he could've missed this detail for the entire time they'd been here.

The table in that corner had one man sitting at it, dressed in black, a bandanna on his head and sunglasses over his eyes despite very little light. For the first second John caught site of him, he looked like any biker in any city, but the tattoos on his arms gave the Undertaker away. "Oh, shit."

Turning to stare at John, thinking something interesting was happening, Randy said, "What?"

"Nuthin,'" John shook his head, making eye contact long enough to convince Randy he wasn't bullshitting. It had been a long time since John had seen the Undertaker in any capacity other than passing by him in a hallway, but he was worried about Randy. If Randy saw 'Taker here, he'd either panic and cause a scene or panic and start a fight.

Once Randy went back to his drink, John took another look at the Undertaker, seeing the bottle of Jack Daniels sitting on his table and the large, thick book opened up next to it. The dead man was lazily turning pages, and John thought he looked _fake,_ like he was trying to be the American Badass again and just couldn't get it right. It seemed like nothing more than a poor disguise, the same way being Clark Kent didn't really make Superman look any different.

The huge book he was looking through didn't help the biker image. Even from far away and in the dim, smoke-filled room, he could see the pages weren't printed with words but with a lot of designs and sketches. Many of them looked torn or burned, some had entire chunks of paper missing. The book was obviously incomplete. When the Undertaker slammed it closed and took a slow drink from his bottle, John's first instinct was to drag Randy out. They were between the tables and the door.

However, 'Taker didn't dawdle. Leaving the pay for his tab on the table, he stood up as if he _hadn't_ just polished off half a bottle of Jack, tucked his book under an arm, and started walking.

Briefly, John thought that simply turning back towards the counter and sipping his beer like nothing was wrong, like he hadn't even _noticed_ the Undertaker, was childish. How terrible could it really be, anyway? It'd been some time since Randy's little flaming casket business, and 'Taker hadn't paid the man any heed once he'd beaten him to a pulp inside the cell.

These thoughts, and thoughts like how the Undertaker was just a man with a mastery over presenting his gimmick and nothing more...all of these thoughts left John in a hurry when the sounds of the Undertaker's heavy footsteps stopped _right behind him._ Suddenly wondering why he ever thought of Randy as paranoid, John could feel eyes boring into him, he felt the sweat run down his back and half-expected to feel a fist connect with his kidney at any given moment.

When the Undertaker left, he breathed a sigh of relief, chugged the last of his beer and wondered, again, why he'd gotten so antsy. After a minute, he decided he didn't want to think about it anymore. "Let's blow this joint, bro."

"Wish I could _have_ a joint," Randy did one more shot. He was completely oblivious to John's subsiding fear; he'd missed 'Taker entirely. "Damn people and their cameras..."

For a second, John thought Randy was beyond the point of understanding simple sentences, but Randy slid off of his stool and took his sweet time fumbling with his wallet before tossing a wad of bills on the counter. "My treat tonight, man."

"Thanks, bro," Cena nodded. Nudging Randy towards the door with an arm over his shoulders, John led Randy at a slow pace. He wasn't so worried about being attacked now that he'd had a chance to breath and realize he'd been panicking for nothing, but he was still worried about Randy seeing the dead guy anywhere outside of an arena. "C'mon."

Outside, John looked around, trying to figure out where Undertaker's motorcycle had to have been parked. He wondered if it was distinctive, something he could've seen when they'd arrived, or if 'Taker even drove them anymore. The air outside was thick, more distracting than it would've been if he were sober, and he just couldn't think straight through the haze. Once he was done with this line of thought, John whistled at the next taxi coming down the street. "Yo!"

"Hey, we're like, a five minute walk away from the hotel," Randy chuckled. He seemed more amused than curious.

"Yeah," John nodded. He just wanted to get away from the place as fast as possible. "I'm lazy. And a little drunk."


End file.
